Perfect
by writingmyownhistory-inactive
Summary: If Beagle thinks you're perfect, there's a chance that someday you'll see yourself that way, too. ;Beagle/Georgia;


[A/N: I'm a sap. Sorry. Oh, and I don't own this brilliant movie. Just the plot of this fluffy little thing.]

* * *

You're not perfect.

"I'm not perfect," you vocalize this thought, protesting, but your voice is muffled by the pillow you've cried into so much lately. And you just keep repeating this, mumbling it until you're slurring words even more than usual.

The truth just makes your heart hurt.

-x-

You cry into the early hours of the morning. By the time you're downstairs, eating your breakfast without tasting it, your eyes are dry. They're probably swollen and red, but you haven't checked and even if you did look in the mirror to find out, you couldn't change the way they look.

You're going to school looking like a zombie regardless. You really just want to stay in bed today, avoiding life, and you can't. Staying home would require too much explaining, something you know you can't do without exploding into sobs again.

You just hope no one will ask you what's wrong.

-x-

"Are you okay?"

Beagle pauses in the middle of serving your food, some nearly unidentifiable thing that looks like potatoes but probably won't taste like them if you manage to choke them down.

Your breath stops in your throat.

There's no way you can lie to him. You've been lying to people all day but his eyes sweep over your face, full of concern and you almost break down right there.

Beagle's just too receptive sometimes.

"No." Your voice cracks and he drops the spoon back into the container of glop, walking out from behind the counter and putting his hand gently on your shoulder.

He leads you down the hall to a door marked 'Staff Only' and after a quick glance inside, helps you sit on the single couch.

You rest your cheek on the leather and let another tear escape. A tension headache is building inside and you just want to sleep with Beagle sitting beside you.

"I'm here if you want to talk, you know," he says, pulling off his jacket and draping it over you.

"I know."

Then you let your head sink into your hands and silently bawl yet again. This is like PMS, only hundreds of times worse. All of these crying jags are freaking you out.

Maybe you're bipolar. It wouldn't exactly surprise you to find that there's yet another thing wrong with your body, another medical label to carry. But you don't entertain that idea. Beagle's patting your back and it's kind of awkward when he shows physical affection, but it feels nice.

"Can you tell me why you're so upset?"

You lift your shoulders in a quick shrug. Tears are still pouring down your cheeks. Beagle hands you a tissue and watches silently, looking sad himself, as you start scrubbing away the dampness.

"I don't know-" Your body shudders involuntarily. "I don't understand anything."

"That makes two of us."

"No, I mean," your hands fly up, urged by your frustration, and you feel bad because you almost hit Beagle when they start to shake. "I don't understand how you can like me-"

"I love you-"

The surprise makes you choke on your own spit. Okay, maybe you were kind of expecting him to say that. You've been dating, an item, 'having a thing', 'going steady', whatever people call it, for eight months.

But he hasn't said it before.

Not once.

And even if he means it, how can it be true in any place other than his own mind?

"Nobody can love a freak." You sputter finally.

Beagle sighs, looks at the ceiling tiles like they'll offer him advice, and takes both your hands in his.

"Could you just…not say that?"

"You know it's true."

"No, it isn't."He bites his lip, looking nervous. "You-you're perfect. Just the way you are."

"Spare me."

"Hey." He's staring straight into your eyes with more intensity than usual. He doesn't even probe your gaze like this before he kisses you goodbye every afternoon, and those are the times it's like he's trying to commit every little detail of you to memory.

"Listen to me," he says slowly, kissing you once before he finishes saying what, exactly, it is that he wants you to hear.

"You're perfect for me. And I love you."

You're crying again, but softly now and for a whole different reason. It might take time for your mood to really lift.

But if Beagle thinks you're perfect, there's a chance that someday you'll see yourself that way, too.

"I love you, too, Beagle."


End file.
